


Mess of You

by BrookeSutter



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Conflict, Dark!Clarke, F/M, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Protective Bellamy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-03-31 15:54:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3983977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrookeSutter/pseuds/BrookeSutter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one talks of the "solitary" girls or what the guards do to them--they aren't supposed to live to tell their stories. The beauty of Earth blinded her for a seven hours before she remembered that her plan would never be finalized, that she would never be floated and this would never be over--that she would never escape the hell of being a victim. 10 months. Three weeks. Four days. And Clarke remembered every single one of them. </p><p>He notices her in a way he didn't expect to notice her. </p><p>They aren't friends. They aren't enemies. She's Clarke Griffin and he's Bellamy Blake and they just are. </p><p>Or the piece where Clarke is sexually assaulted while in solitary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Bitter Taste

Her blonde hair plays with the wind the way the teenagers stomp around formerly untouched greenery; naturally reckless. Quickly, she pulls her hair up with frantic twists before she releases a loud huff in the general direction of the entire population of Earth. _Idiots,_ she humorlessly muses while approaching a dip in the ground. It takes her a brief moment of pure wonderment—unadulterated happiness—to realize they are not where they are supposed to be. This time she says, “Idiots” out loud without a care for whoever happens to hear her working through the untimely irritation pulsating in her temples. The mere idea of getting one of her headaches reminds her that they don’t have medicine, they don’t have anything and more importantly, “They dropped us on the wrong damn mountain.”

The familiar metallic taste of blood glides across her tongue as she bites too hard on her lip. Clarke knows that she needs to pull out the map, she needs to figure out where they are and where they need to be in order to sustain the rowdy population. She knows her duties and she knows that she has to keep these people alive or _a lot_ of other innocents would die.

But the thought of holding a pencil and using the skills her father eagerly passed onto her left her body cold. Nearly shivering in a way that she hadn’t experienced since the seventh month in solitary. Ironically, one would assume that she was getting better because she stopped screaming in her sleep and she stopped trembling with so much pent up emotion but the truth of it all was the fact that Clarke Griffin managed to achieve a specific numbness to the four gray walls that previously housed her every fear.

She could remember how he taught her to hold a pencil:

_Jake Griffin smiled broadly as he held her hand. His voice was a soft whisper because her mother, Abigail Griffin, was asleep after an all-nighter in the medical bay. “You have to cradle it between these three fingers,“ He instructed her calmly, placing the thin pencil he used for work into her eager grasp. She fumbled despite his teachings until he adjusted her hold. “Your thumb, your middle and index fingers hold the pencil like a baby.” Even at four years old, she was smart. Clarke started to shake her head, a small grin on her face as she looked at her dad. “What?”_

_“Mommy says that your thumb is not a finger, daddy—you’re silly.”_

_Silly was always a better euphemism._

And remained a better word for the way she felt about him now. If she could go back to the happy child she used to be, she would in a heartbeat—no questions asked. _Ten months. Three weeks. Four days._ Her mind constantly keeps a countdown of the time she spent in prison for _treason._ Ten months, three weeks, and four days ago her parents coupled together and turned her in to a concerned friend. They feared that she would tell the entire Ark that the oxygen system was failing and they had limited time to come up with a solution.

Her father’s request had been rejected.

Clarke never took “no” for an answer.

If one were to ask her parents, it was entirely her fault for putting them in such an awful situation. Clarke was breaking the law no matter how moral her cause happened to be. The two people she loved destroyed her life, destroyed her—destroyed her innocence. There’s a reason there aren’t any survivor stories involving solitary on the Ark—no one expects you to live in the first place and even if you do, you’re too traumatized to tell people about the frigid showers you have to take a night while a middle-aged guard watches you because you’re “dangerous” and he needs to keep a “better eye on you” in case you’re a “bad girl.”

No one cares about the “solitary” girls, yet everyone seems to know about the awful treatment once they entered death row. For a few months, she spent time with her ear pressed against the door—trying to hear conversations over the machine hum of the failing system. She could hear the monsters chuckling about _who_ and _where_ and _when._ It was then that she decided some people don’t deserve to live. A lot of people _do,_ but some don’t.

Her thoughts capture all of her attention and she feels the trembling increase. It was her secret and no one needed to see her in the beginnings of a breakdown. What if Wells returned from his brief perimeter search? What if she was too far gone to respond by the time he graced her with his presence? Clarke had to say that it was equally shameful and a relief to see her best friend after all the time she’d spent without people that loved her or cared if she was crying herself to sleep. Her skin is flushes a light pink and her jaw clenches tightly as she tries to control herself.

There’s a loud crunch behind her, and far too quickly to be casual, she turns on her heel. Her fist tightens until she wants to wince with the pain. She is met by a face that she was positive would be etched into her mind for a long time. The boy—well, man—wearing the guard’s uniform. She noted beforehand that he had an obvious distaste for her. It was clear in the way he furrowed his brows and tightened his jaw. Clarke could care less about how he felt about her, just as long as he left her alone. She knows she can’t trust anyone—especially someone who seems corrupt, temperamental and motivated wearing a guard’s uniform. “Oh, it’s you.” She hopes her voice indicates that she is indifferent about him. She hopes he realizes that his existence wouldn’t affect her—because she’s certain that he is a footnote in her life.

“Mmm, I just wanted to enlighten you on a foreign subject. Chancellor Junior and you aren’t in charge here so don’t think for a moment that you are. Understand?” There’s a gleam of something in his eyes that she recognizes as deception. Clarke doesn’t plan on focusing on his personal issues or what he wants out of the camp. The second her mind went into overdrive, she knew that she couldn’t stick around for the adults to land. She wants to take care of people, she wants them to live—she wants to do the right thing but where did it lead her to last time? _I have to take care of myself._

She scoffs even if it doesn’t bother her, because she really doesn’t care about this stranger, “I don’t give a damn what you do.” She doesn’t care about his hair or how she imagined it would look much better without the horrible styling. She doesn’t care about his tell-tale eyes and how they give away all his secrets. She doesn’t care about his quirked lip, or the way he’s smirking at her. Honestly, nothing about this guy pulls her in or dares her to do something reckless.

“Good, Princess.”

_You’re not heartless, Clarke._

He’s about to walk away, she can tell by his position. He is looking over his shoulder in the direction of his sister. _He has a sister._ “Your name is Bellamy, right?”

“Oh, getting to know the commoners names now?” She takes this as a _yes_ even if his attitude creates a barrier between a reasonable response and a correct answer.

“Well, _Bellamy,_ since you’re the established leader of these misfits after half an hour on Earth I thought you should know that we’re on the wrong mountain. The supplies in which Jaha mentioned are not here. So, unless you want your people to starve I would do something about it.”

He furrows his brows, “What do we do, then?”

“How am I supposed to know? I’m not in charge.”


	2. Secrets

Clarke knows people are starting to get hungry. It's written all over their faces and she's just standing around with rudimentary Earth navigation skills and squashed ambitions. She's trying not to focus on who might be serious offenders--but it's hard because they seem to flock towards Bellamy. For some reason, this makes her shiver but then common sense kicks in, _you've got to stay away from him._  Yet, she knows she can't stay away from him when a bunch of teenagers are nearly starving on a foreign planet and she possesses enough intelligence to solve the problem. At least, she _thinks_ she can solve the problem.

The sky is darkening and it looks like it's going to rain--cloud formation means rain, right? There is a group of girls eyeing Bellamy and from the eat in his eyes, he appreciates their gestures. _It's now or never..._ Clarke thinks because honestly, she doesn't want to catch him in a post coital even if it would enhance his mood. She's a virgin but she's read enough books to know that sex makes people happy. She's a virgin but she's been through hell and sex isn't even something she can contemplate without getting ridiculously clinical. Her entire childhood was ruined by guards with roaming hands and assholes who liked to shove their tongues down her throat and grab her skin. She keeps thinking, _I'm lucky I'm on Earth. I'm lucky I'm on Earth._ Because if she wasn't on Earth, if this had been her last month in solitary, they would have taken everything from her.

She keeps saying she's lucky, but she's really not.

It takes her a few moments to gather herself before she bravely approaches Bellamy. Something in her mind tells her that she has more courage than those girls desperately throwing themselves at him from afar, this notion makes her confident in her actions. His lips part but she speaks before he can rattle off an insult, "We need to talk." Clarke says firmly, her palms falling victim to her fingernails again.

The creepy kid who seems to have it out for Wells and her faux whispers to the guy wearing a beanie--Clarke swears to god she knows him from somewhere but can't put her finger on it. "Solitary girls are only good at one thing...lying on their backs." He snickers as he says it and Clarke sees nothing but red. There's only white noise running through her ears and her eyes can't even form tears. She just stands there, frozen and blinded by pure rage that he would ever suggest the torture the girls suffered through made them _sluts._

"What did you want to talk about?" She hears Bellamy ask the question, completely ignoring what the creep said. There's a good chance Bellamy doesn't know what he's referring to. There's a good chance only a few people do. If the creepy kids one of them, that means he's heard the guards bragging. That means he was in one of the higher security portions--that roughly translates to the fact that he's either psychotic or dangerous or both.

She can't answer Bellamy.

Clarke can't do anything but dig her fingers in her fleshy palms so hard that she knows she's drawing blood. "You were in solitary, right?" The creepy kid asks, "Mommy and daddy probably thought they were doing their Princess a favor--didn't know about the mean guards, did they? Tell me, did you just take it o--"

"That's enough." Somehow, it's her own voice. Somehow, she manages to sound _strong_ even if her heart is about to explode in her chest--ever if there's multiple burning stings on her palms. Bellamy's face is a mask, as if he's trying to hide his emotions from the boys surrounding him. "I wanted to talk about when briefly discussed earlier." Clarke wants to sound professional. She _needs_ to sound professional. This time, Bellamy doesn't ask her to elaborate in front of his posse. He stands and moves his head in the direction of a functional tent. The thin hairs on her arms prickle and it's suddenly a hundred degrees colder. _Stay away. Stay away. Stay away._

He holds the flap open for her and waits until she's inside to follow. There's the beginnings of a bed--more like a pallet--in the corner of the tent. Then she's reminded that he's wearing a guard's uniform--that their alone in his tent and he's wearing a _guard's uniform._ "Go on, talk." It sounds surprisingly like an order.

Clarke sucks in a deep breath, "As you know--" She removes the map from her pocket and takes a seat on the ground. It doesn't feel weird to her because she's spent a lot of time on the ground sketching her demons, sketching her innocent dreams. Bellamy cocks an eyebrow but joins her on the ground with a huff. "--we're on the wrong mountain and the supplies are here." She points to where they are, and rubs her hand across the map to Mount Weather. She's talking about how they need to get to Mount Weather and the best thing to do is figure out how can track and how has good endurance when he grabs her hand and turns it over.

"You did this." It's not a question. He knows she cut into her skin because the half-moons are obviously there.  "Uh, do you have a bandage or something?" The question runs through her head multiple times--she knows the answer, _no._ _No, we don't have anything and that's why we're talking right now because we can't survive without those supplies._

But her mouth is on autopilot. She's saying what she always told Jackson, her mother's assistant, when he did a routine check-up, "It's fine." The thing is, it's not fine because he doesn't need to know how weak she is--how torn apart this makes her. She doesn't need sympathy, she just needs to forget it ever happened.

"It's dirty here. I don't have a medical education, but this will get infected." Bellamy counters, still gripping her hands, still absolutely certain in an infuriating way.

"It's fine." She repeats and gives him a look that begs him to _let it go_.

He doesn't. "What was Murphy talking about out there?" She can tell by the look on his face that he's been waiting for the chance to ask her. That he chose not to react outside because he didn't want to make a scene for her.

Clarke shrugs, "I don't know."

"Did they--" He breathes through his nose quickly as if the question hurts him personally, "--hurt you in solitary?"

She starts to shake her head back and forth, over and over again. "Not the way they hurt other girls. I'm lucky, really." _Not really._

"But they still...they still hurt you?" She doesn't know him well enough for his voice to be quiet and tender. She doesn't know him at all. "They still did things to you that make you hurt yourself?"

"I'm fine." Clarke breathes, "This was a mistake. You seem capable enough to come up with a plan by yourself. You don't need me." She starts to stand up quickly, "Keep the map."

"Clarke."

Her breath catches in her throat, "I really don't--I can't talk about it, okay? Because if I talk about it...I know it was real, I know what I experienced happened but if I talk about it, I'm not just telling my secret to you. And God, you're a stranger. You don't even like me."

"I don't have to like you to know that you need someone right now to protect you from assholes like Murphy and those guards. They will come down here, Princess. What then? I imagine you haven't told your Prince what happened in the Skybox...I just, damn, just stay here tonight okay? Don't go out there with those criminals." His speech is filled with emotions he shouldn't have for her and she kind of wonders if he's projecting his need to protect _his sister_ onto her. Where the hell is Octavia, anyway? She should be with her brother. He's right about the criminals. 

"I'll be fine."

"That's your favorite lie, isn't it?"

"If I stay, will you take off the uniform jacket?" Clarke asks and she feels weak. She feels so weak.

"Of course."

 

 


End file.
